Love, Lillian
by Reina de la Noche
Summary: Lily writes a letter. Tears, regrets, and wishes. Seventh year, JPLE, oneshot.


I swear, this is the final draft. A thousands thanks to everyone who already reviewed, as well as to the lovely Lina, my most favorite beta. Her patience with this piece amazes me.

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Dear James,

Isn't it funny, that you'd be dear anything to me? No one would believe you if you told them that Lily Evans addressed her letters to a certain Mr. Potter "Dear James." Most of them wouldn't believe that she would actually write to him at all.

It's almost funny, the way things change. Who'd have believed that James Potter could ever be Head Boy? And such a good Head Boy, too.

I'm sorry if I'm crying, if the ink is a bit smeared. It's not easy to remember the sort of girl I used to be, the sort of girl who convinces herself she's better than the rest of the world.

In the end, no one's really perfect, no matter what they'd like you to think. I'm not, you know. You always used to say I was. You'd tell me I was perfect, and I'd scoff at you, but I believed you anyway. I believed you, but you were lying. I'm not perfect, not even close.

How odd, that you used to be the one so imperfect, and I so pure. It's hard to say now which of us is the more flawed. Things change, though, and neither of us is so wonderful as we once thought.

I was arrogant, wasn't I? I was just as arrogant as you were, but at least you knew it. You knew, and you changed it, because the truth is, you aren't that egotistical boy anymore. I was the one who couldn't admit that I could be anything less than perfect. It's hard to change if you won't admit that something's wrong.

It's almost funny how things turn out. If we were back in fifth year and I said any of this to you, you'd probably laugh and insult me, and I'd get angry with you. Because you were a brat and I was conceited. If I said it last year, you'd have smiled and told me that such low self-esteem was unhealthy, and I'd have yelled at you for it. Because you didn't take anything seriously and I was a snob. If it were last year or the year before, I suppose I wouldn't be telling you this at all.

But things change, and now it's _this_ year. Here I sit, penning this letter to you, and I have no idea what you'll do after reading it.

You probably think I'm still working on my Transfiguration essay. I'm not _that_ bad at Transfiguration, you know, even if I'm not as good as you. You're brilliant, all four of you. I know you still wish I'd never found out, but I've never told anyone. I kept my promise.

You always kept all your promises. Don't you remember? Even when you were at that stage when you hexed anything that moved, you never broke a promise. I've broken a lot of my promises, James, and the truth is, I'm not sorry, not at all. I promised I would always hate you; I promised you would never make me cry. And I don't ever want to kiss the Giant Squid, or throw myself off the Astronomy Tower, or snap my wand in half. I lied, James, you know. Perfect Lily the Good is all a lie. I never was that pure. I was always too vain, too self-righteous. I'm sorry, James… I lied.

I told you once that I would never love you. I haven't broken that promise. Not yet. I don't believe in love at seventeen. What scares me is how easy that promise would be to break someday. It was so easy to keep when you were just Potter the marauding fool.

Potter was an arrogant arse, but James isn't, and he probably never was. How do we do that -- conceal ourselves like that? We're playing hide-and-go-seek, but the game ended long ago. We're both still hiding, I think, though you've found yourself a new cover to hide behind. What other explanation is there for all of this?

This is Lily, coming out of hiding for the first time in a long while. Do you want to meet her? What a silly question. You don't have much choice left. You've heard what Lily('s) had to say, and hopefully you listened. Just humor me a bit longer, would you?

If you were still pretending to be Potter, you'd be laughing at me by now. Don't deny it. And if you were James… If you were James, I don't know what you'd do, because James is unpredictable like that. The Head Boy, though, will just give me that look of his, and smile politely, and change the subject, because it's not important.

But it is. It _is_ important, don't you understand? We're lost, both of us. How terrible, for the Head Boy and Girl to be so confused. To be such liars. We're supposed to be setting a good example for the rest of the school, not sitting in the middle of the common room sobbing over a silly letter. If I have something to say to you, I should just walk over and say it. But I can't. I'm still too much of a coward. I'm still scared you'll just smile politely at me and change the subject and I'll smile politely back, and then none of this will ever get said.

But this is important, I promise.

Once, you would have been at my side the moment my eyes so much as watered, offering a handkerchief or sleeve or whatever else happened to be handy. Now you're too busy working on homework to notice that I'm crying my eyes out. Remember how I used to get all annoyed at you for being so attentive? Well, the sad thing, James, is that right now, I miss that. I miss your hopeful smile and pleading tone, and I know now you were just trying to help. It used to drive me insane.

Once upon a time, I knew this boy, and his name was James Potter, and he was the funniest person I've ever met. He used to call me Lillian, even after I explained that my name was Lily, not Just Lily, or Lilith, or Lillian, or anything like that. Do you know what he told me, though? He said it could be my nickname. I tried to tell him that nicknames were supposed to be shorter than a person's actual name, but he called me Lillian anyway. He never did what everyone else did. He always had to be different.

Back then, I didn't think that all those things he did were funny. It wasn't amusing when he called me Lillian. I didn't laugh at his jokes, even though they were always brilliant. Even the Sirius joke was funny when he told it, no matter how many times everyone had already heard it. He never said it when he shouldn't have, and he didn't overuse it like some people.

He was obsessed with Quidditch, and it drove me so crazy. He had this Snitch he'd stolen and carried everywhere with him. He'd be talking with his friends and he'd just start tossing it around. That always got on my nerves. I didn't like Quidditch before I met him, you know. But it was always entertaining to watch when he was playing, and even more so when he wasn't. He liked to sit right behind me in the bleachers and whisper things about the players and the game in my ear. It never failed to annoy me then, but now that he is silent, I miss his commentary.

One of the things I hated the most about him was the way he smiled when he knew someone was watching him. He had this smirk he'd put on, and it always made me want to punch him. But he had the most wonderful smile when he thought no one was looking. He doesn't smile much anymore, and when he does, it's not that horrid leer, but it's not that other smile, either. He doesn't mean it when he smiles now. Now, the smirks seem like just a small sacrifice for those secret little smiles, though I would once have given anything to rid myself of both.

Do you know what else I miss? I miss the way he always had something interesting in his pockets. We'd just be sitting in class, and he'd reach into one of his pockets and pull out a Chocolate Frog, or a chess piece, or an enchanted paper airplane. Or we'd all be lounging around in the common room, and he'd stick a hand into one of his other pockets and produce a firecracker, or some strange new drink, or even just a marble. I yelled at him some of the stuff, but his pockets are empty now and I find I liked it better when they only looked that way.

I used to know this boy, and he used to like this girl, but the girl was too blind to see that all he wanted to do was impress her and he just didn't know the right way to go about it. I used to know this boy, and his hair never lay flat, and his tie was always loose, and he always had something interesting to say. What happened to him, James?

I'm selfish and I know it. You don't have to tell me anymore. I always wanted you to change, but now that you have, here I am, missing the old you. The irony is painful.

I never would have dreamed that I could miss any part of the boy you used to be, but somehow I do. I don't miss the hexing and the arrogance and the pranks, but now, looking back, perhaps you weren't ever truly horrible to anyone but Snape. It's hard for me to say this, even now, but really, it's probably just as much my fault as it is yours. My fault for reacting so violently, even when the crime wasn't so terrible.

I can't say you were blameless. You shouldn't have done a lot of the things you did. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn't all as terrible as I acted like it was.

This is all a bit confused in my mind. I know it's wrong for me to wish the old you back, the you who hexed and tormented and hit on me shamelessly. Can't I have the best of both worlds? Is it possible for you to be the individual you used to be and still keep some of that maturity you've gained? I wish it were.

There's a boy sitting at that table over there. He looks a lot like you, James, but his hair is tidy and his tie is neat. We're the last ones left in the common room. Everyone else has gone off to bed, but here we sit. I'm still laboring over this letter and he's slaving away at his schoolwork. You always used to do your homework during breakfast. You still got brilliant marks, and I was always so mad. I was jealous, I think.

I'm not jealous anymore.

Look at that boy, working so hard. He's probably finishing the Potions essay that's due next week. You never used to do your homework until the day before it was due.

I'm almost done with this letter. I'm going to fold it up into an airplane like you always used to and enchant it so it'll glide over and land on the table in front of you. (I'm not much for throwing things, as I'm sure you remember.) You'll pick it up and unfold it with that puzzled look on your face, and then you'll read it. But after that… after that, I don't know. Maybe you'll toss it into the fire. Maybe you'll push it away, ignore it so it'll disappear. Maybe you'll smile politely and try to change the subject.

But you can't, not this time. That boy sitting in that chair, he's not James. And though I never thought I'd say this, I miss James. The game's over. You can come out now, James. Stop trying to be someone you're not.

Is it arrogant of me to accuse you of adopting personas to try to please me? Is it conceited for me to say that it is mostly my fault that you ever became Potter or this Head Boy I barely even know? Is it vain for me to say that if I had paid more attention to James, if I had shown a bit more appreciation for who you are underneath it all, a lot of things would be different now?

Come out from wherever you're hiding, and we'll talk, just James and Lily. I promise I won't get mad if you'll promise you won't hex anything. So what do you think? Shall we stop hiding? Because, you know, it would be so easy to break that last promise. Because, James, I miss you.

Love,

Lillian


End file.
